


The Main Difference Between Horror And Love Stories Is The Ending

by skellerbvvt



Category: Doctor Who
Genre: F/M, Monsters, Mythical Beings & Creatures, Tumblr
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-03
Updated: 2013-02-03
Packaged: 2017-11-28 02:05:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,536
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/669021
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skellerbvvt/pseuds/skellerbvvt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If it is a horror story, the Beast devours the Beauty. </p><p>If it is a love story the Beauty devours the Beast.</p><p>(A weeping angel falls in love with her prey.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Main Difference Between Horror And Love Stories Is The Ending

**Author's Note:**

> In response, as ever, to[ this post](http://amaleia-rose.tumblr.com/post/40333741971/what-if-a-weeping-angel-fell-in-love-with-a) which is lovely and deserves lovely things.

I hunger.

He is here, again, on this street corner, where I am and have been, quietly waiting with eyes on me, around me, for a Time, lord, is he of this little stretch of pavement and here, I thought, before, when I was still stone and he was still meat and potential oh. Oh his potential spinning out before him smelling so fresh and new and delicious that I had wanted to rip him away from it, because, after all? Meat just spoils, and does not miss the spoils of it’s unlived life as I. I thought, before, here: is someone who understands the importance of stillness.

I had not ripped him away from his path and placed him on a new one, because there had been eyes on him as there had been eyes on me, sinking fast, still, truth? The truth is, of course, that waiting is the predator’s greatest advantage. A cat will hide behind bushes and wait, and sleep, and wait, and wait, and burst forward like a song and kill and, but, my favorite? Is cats that kill for fun and leave the bony, rotting meat with life, but no potential, and, I think, draped as such on this street corner with a plaque saying I am a donation to the city by a man I made exist here from elsewhere (a ha! A joke.), that cats are not-so-gentle-psychopaths, but still. Lovely.

I hunger.

Here, is he, and oh. Oh. He pretends to be a statue so he might gain coin! He pretends to be still, paints his face, and moves his meat and he is lovely, then, wrapped so tightly in the delicious, succulent coils of all he could do and be and love? And still, when there are no eyes watching, mimicking me. The two of us part of a play, until, at last, someone walks by and he moves, and hands them a flower, and they jump back. They scream. Their potential twists around his and anything could be in those moments, and no one looks at me, and then, in those long aching stretches where I could move, and do not, I could reach forward and pluck him from the vine and suck the marrow from his lifebones and I do not. We are good at waiting.

You do not take people out of their time. You take people out of the right time. At the time of many possibilities. At the time when their potential is burstingly ripe and then. You put them somewhere else. The energy is greatest in the middle of the storm, it is said, and we laugh behind our hands, if we talk, if we chance to pass in the night as you go on your hunt and I go with mine and we hunger.

It is many of these instances, when I could have, and do not, even though his scent is ripe and even though I hunger, and it is because I like the moments when he is still, and I am still, and no one looks upon us and either of us could move, but we do not and he understands the importance of stillness. And that. Worries? me.

I hunt, him.

(doesn’t anyone notice? No. We. We have been here always. We have been with you. Always. We take the kind of people who notice. Who look and wonder. We take them and move them because they are the most delicious and slowly, slowly, you have removed them from your gene pool (and we, of course, put them back in. Earlier. Earlier. Selective breeding is not from your agricultural revolution.))

It is easy to hunt now, when no one makes eye contact and everyone is hooked into electronics and buzzed away, and he goes and he does meat things. Boring. Boring meat things. Masticating. Communicating. Spending down his time in slow, lazy revolutions of choice from moment to moment and he stands, at a stall, and decides not to buy a bottle of wine (and oh, I can see him buying it. Him taking it to a woman’s house. Them drinking it. Them falling in love. Them. Ah, but no. She is not here and I am. He goes to his apartment. Too many eyes. I return to the corner. I wait. Wolves wait by running, they do not go fast, but they go long, and eventually their prey will fall of exhaustion. There is a story of a book falling in love. With the reader.  (there is a story, of a man falling in love with a statue, but human love is parasitic and makes the abject into object for the subject's consumption and that. Is a horror story. Beauty devoured the Beast.)

I hunger.

I could take him and he would be a new jester in an old kingdom. I could take him and he would be the grinning green-eyed boy of some aging, graceful queen and he would do his clockwork bow and she would laugh and he would wait on her. I could take him and he could be a shepherd left long on the hills of some grassy meadow there is now a strip mall on. And he would sit and watch and know, then, the meaning of stillness. I could take him and place my hands on either side of his equilateral face and force his eyes to stare into mine until I was the only story pulsing in his head and then he could be stone and not meat and we would hunger. But we do not have pack. We cover our faces upon greeting and all our dates our blind. (A ha! A joke. He tells them.)

I hunt him down to a new street when, it happens, that our first is no longer enough and if I am in a new pose he does not notice I am the same actress. My eyes covered, and wings spread and one hand down and he takes it and pretends to be about to kiss and meat loves the taste of itself so much. They crave so much, which is why they fill so readily when bundled away from that which they have desired. They do well, better, than others, because humans transplant easily. They grow in new sun and they dig in their roots and all there could-have-beens are as sweet on our tongues as they are bitter on their’s.

I track him home, again, and see all the ways his night could go and my mouth waters and my hands itch and he goes inside and he turns, then, and looks at me, and I freeze. He frowns, then, and there is a brilliant moment of possibility. Of Newness that has entered his self-contained spiral to dirt (meat becomes stone becomes meat becomes stone becomes meat…) and he hangs on the precipice of going inside and rotting inside himself. And. It is this. This. Moment so perfectly ripe, so succulently fat and dripping with could-bes and I hunger. I hunger. I could reach, he is close, and rip and he. Would be lovely. Then, as anywhere. I could make a beautiful home. For him. I know all the spots that shine the brightest for what he isn't now. He would be. Happy, there. I am still. The moment stretches like a note and snaps, at last, like a string and it sours. Goes off. A choice, then, made. Hateful. He looks into my eyes and. I want to dig, my image, into his brain. And etch all? Of my eternities there, and so in the eternity he takes to blink I close my eyes and listen.

Human hearts have so many possibilities of beats, all with the same rhythm. It is a beautiful cacophony. He has eyes like oxidized copper and his teeth are not whitened and his flesh crinkles when he bares them and there is a horror story of us and a blind man (I say man, though it could be anything) who does not see and does not know and cannot hurt and one of the us settles down next to the blind man (or woman, or anything, really. Horror stories, like humans, adapt) and the us, it says, resonates. The blind man is no threat and we do not eat him and what he says resonates. In the us and the horror story ends and has an end and I know the end, but endings are meant to be ripped from things and changed, so, of course, I will.

He puts his hand on mine and clasps it and he does not say a stupid human thing of trying to rationalize, he stays silent, because he knows the value of waiting, and he goes inside, and I return to the first street corner and stand, silent, waiting, endless and I hunger. There are others, on their hunts and they do not mind me and I do not mind them, but their wings brush mine, sometimes, in the dark of our own exiles and he returns and I do not have a heart, because I am hollow, but in that hollowness: he resonates.

We are kind. We first numb what we cut. We gentle what we bleed. We are the shepherds of our flock and when the birth is breeched we heal, and when it is cold we take the fluttering lamb inside to warm it and we feed it from our stock and we cradle it close and we raise it fat and when at last comes the knife it is with those same hands we lower it quietly into the neck.

I hunger.

He comes, at night, and sits there, next to the plaque of the man whose potential children I cooked up and ate in my gingerbread house before they could ever be left in the woods, and I? I want to ask. Him. This. Oxidized copper monster where, he thinks, he gets off, walking off the path into the woods and bothering the wolves who waits for the sheep to be abandoned. Why, does he think that his red cloak will attract the attention of a colorblind monster who wants? so much? to feel the crunch of bones and the sweet slick feeling of blood that would never be spilled or saved or given. How _dare_ he.

He puts a hand on my wing and angels. Humans and their angels. Or. Us and our humans. Who. Who infected? Who struck the first blow that resonated across time and made them worship and fear and blaspheme and us crave all that they did not do?

He does not speak. He eats. He does meat things. He rots. Maybe. He could be buried. When he is done. And I? Could be the gravestone who watches all the lives his atoms lived, in all the places they could go because I could see the Schrödinger (ha!) maybe of where. He has rubbed the paint from his skin and he could drop away into the maddening crowd and I could lose him except he is a smell, like winter is a smell, that burns itself into the stone of what makes a soul the definition of a thing that is impermanent.

He leaves as the sun rises and from then I follow. He resonates. His maybes are things I wish to see from peaked fingers, and I hover in all the eternities where he is slow and stumbling and blind and there are many. Hunters. On this ball of dust. And I am the biggest and I am the worst and then do not come to him, there are no shadows where he walks. No silence when he speaks, and he trips over their bodies and forgets what made him stumble. Such a noisy ball of dust that wants, do badly, to end.

and he, alone, is so very safe from all the bright lights of the whirling storm, whenever that lightning hits and does not hit him. Him alone who is safe and lovely, and knows he has a guardian but does not know why or how or how much this guardian would love to be his downfall. And the hollowness that I am deepens and you cannot, can you, be a hollow man, if your headpiece is all filled with straw because, is that not? A thing?

No one will steal his skin. I can rip them away too, for all the drops of their insignificant murderousness does not assuage me. Predators hunt herbivores for a reason, if, we are to think, the metaphor holds (it doesn’t, ever, for long.) I follow, him, where he goes and where he goes is where I am... and he does. Human. Things. He thinks, human thoughts. And he tells. Jokes. To no one. But I hear them. (Here: what. Do you call? An angel. Made: of rules? A _statue_ of limitations. A-ha.) And, here is where. If I were meat. I could say. It went on for three years. or Five years. or fifty Years. But time is something I see only the holes of and so. It went. And then. It stopped.

You see. I hunger. I am kind. I let them live to death. Because I hunger. We are creatures of the abstract and if the abstract does not have. The subject. To build off. We. stop. And I would have, like a story, turned to sea foam, perhaps, so he could live out the maybe’s he was dealt, I. Hungered. And I. Ripped him away and put him somewhere new. And I wish… No. You see. You see how dangerous it is. For that. Which is hollow and brittle to resonate. There is another horror story, about that. About that which makes things resonate. That which breaks and proposes to _fix_ them. The storm quenches thirst and washes away sin and floods the cracks that lets the water in. I wish. To say. I wish that is was not delicious. That I did not, as I devoured, love, more, the taste of what he would never had. That I did not gorge on the afternoons I would not watch, away, at a distance, my eyes covered, the way he was. I wish I could say, that in the moment when all my emptiness was filled with all the things he would never do, that I was. Happy? Then. I wish all his unloved loved and all his unlaughed jokes and all the moments of his delicate stillness were not delicious. But. 

Where I set him he was Happy, he was loved, he was...exalted, and meat craves meat, and he was touched and he forgot. The value. Of stillness until it became all that he could be, as it does to all meat.

And here. if I were meat. Would tell of the Great Things he Did before he spoiled, but now he is away from dirt and inside of stone upon these steps and here I am, made of stone. On these steps. With this metaphor clutched in my hand. Oxidizing. And he has no more maybes.

And I hunger.

And I hunger.


End file.
